Spector had waited late for us at Tante Leah’s, hoping to check in without his colleagues around. Having promised to rise at dawn, I wanted to go to bed—but I owed him an explanation of where we’d be the next day.
“So you just wander around by yourself until sunset?” Spector sounded dubious. “I suppose not all your holidays can involve controlling the weather, can they?”
I laughed in spite of myself. “It’s as different from the Winter Tide as you can get. The strongest magic for the longest night, and the deepest contemplation for the longest day.” I sighed. “Finding solitude in New York seems hard, though. It’s supposed to make you appreciate having people around more, when you return to them, but here there are people around all the time.”
He shrugged. “You learn how to make a place for yourself in a crowd. The funny thing is, everyone cooperates. Go to D.C., or worse, out to the country in Virginia, and everyone on the street wants to stop and yak. But New Yorkers can’t get away from each other, so we try to give what privacy we can. I guess … there are a lot of parks where you can get some solitude, but the places with no one around are more dangerous than crowds—not that you can’t defend yourself. What about a museum?”
“Maybe.” I imagined pacing an unfamiliar museum, avoiding Audrey and Charlie while helpful docents tried to explain the art. At least New York’s institutions wouldn’t, so far as I knew, hold stolen artifacts from Y’ha-nthlei.
He took a deep breath. “I’ll tell you what. I was there for your last holiday, I can do something for this one. I know you’ve got too many people to worry about right now—but when all this is over I’ll talk with my family, and set up that dinner I promised Mark. It’ll be a little late, but we’ll have a local feast to celebrate. If that’s appropriate. If you want to come.”
It was another offer of trust, even if the meal would be awkward. And the promise of an “over,” of an oasis from Outer Ones and agents, was comfort in its own right. “I’d be honored.”
As we parted, I recalled a more urgent message. “Mr. Spector?”
His hand was on the door. “Yes, Miss Marsh?”
“Warn your colleagues: none of you should be alone with”—I was not fully confident in our lack of eavesdroppers—“them. They’re better at disguises than you might suppose from the masks.”
“I’ll bear that in mind. And if you’re not allowed in yet, I’ll try to find out whether Miss Koto needs any help.”
“Thank you.”
I pounded up the stairs, relief warring with my awareness that I was about to face a solitary bunk. But when I entered the room, it wasn’t solitary. Before I could summon shock, Deedee pulled me into a fierce hug. “There you are!”
“There I am? Where have you been? Where’s Caleb?”
“Here.” He swung down from the top bunk, hair disheveled from envy-inducing rest. “We’ve been fine. Your pulse has been all over the map. What the hell have you been doing?”
“Meeting Outer Ones in Hunts Point, and arguing with our new cousin, and losing track of Neko, and…” I sat on the lower bunk and buried my head in my hands, overwhelmed all over again with the thought of explaining everything to him, suffering his reactions to each new turn. “You tell me yours, first.”
“Not that much to tell, I’m afraid,” said Deedee. “We figured you had the weird fungus people covered. So we went back to Dr. Sheldon to find out if he could help with any other leads.”
“He’s exasperating,” said Caleb, “but he really did want to help. And I suppose—I wanted to give him a chance to be less terrible than Peters. Which he was.”
“He was very polite,” Deedee assured him. “Mostly. He gave us the measurements he’d worked out, and had some suggestions for where we might look. G.I. records were his big idea—if we can find a way in.”
“Mr. Spector might have access.” I sat up. “It’s a good suggestion, thank you.”
“You’re welcome. And now I want to hear about Neko—if you lost her, please tell me you found her again?”
“I know where she is. That’s not the problem.” In as much detail as I could bear, I sketched the two days since we’d last seen each other.
“We have to go get her,” he said, when I’d finished.
“Chulzh’th says that after the solstice, I’ll be ready to face them again.”
Caleb shook his head. “Not you. We clearly need to keep you away from them. Deedee and I can go after Neko while you’re off being spiritual. We know what to look out for, and to stay where we can see each other. Can you imagine telling Mama Rei that we couldn’t get her back because we spent an extra day wandering the city?”
My relief at his presence was gone. For all that I’d missed him and feared for him, as long as he was away from the situation he was safe. “She chose to go back to them and worried as I am, I don’t think they’ll hurt someone who wants to be there. But you—I can’t imagine telling Grandfather that I let you take this risk, when I’m already in danger. I’m sorry, but my vulnerability means we need you out of harm’s way. Mr. Spector is going to check on Neko tomorrow, and we’ll go after her as soon as we can.”
“She’s my sister too,” he said.
“And my friend,” said Deedee. “Our confluence needs to look out for each other.”
“I beg you,” I said. “Let me know that you two, at least, are safe while I’m doing what I promised tomorrow. After that I swear we’ll meet the elders at Coney Island and we’ll all go together to settle what’s happening with the Outer Ones and Neko. I feel like you’re all being peeled away a strip at a time. The idea of you going into danger without me—just please, don’t. A few hours longer, and we can all face it together.”
Still he hesitated. “Grandfather won’t like that, either.”
“If he wants to talk you out of going, he can do that himself tomorrow night.”
By the time they left for their own hotel, I thought I had them persuaded. But still I feared.
* * *
I slept under my own wards, dreaming ordinary and anxious dreams. I woke sweating from a metamorphosis gone awry, where my finger-webs grew metallic and nerveless as an Outer One canister. Gray light seeped through the window slit. I rubbed my fingertips against the blanket’s cotton weave, the wall’s rough plaster, the join of wood at the corner of the bunk. I prodded my upper arm where Grandfather had scratched his rune. An ordinary cut would be barely visible by now but the white skin still puckered, edged in swollen pink. Close by, faded by months of healing, was the spot where a similar mark had connected me to Sally Ward. Surely I imagined that the skin around my new link swelled cold, that the blood beneath it stilled. I wished the weather could justify long sleeves.
In the hallway, Audrey yawned and grinned at me, and Charlie nodded. But outside, we separated as soon as we could. I walked alone—except, of course, for early-rising New Yorkers opening stalls and hawking papers, and those who staggered home bleary-eyed on the trailing edge of a late night. A small dog scampered across the street. It twitched, whirled on the sidewalk, and barked at me. I backed up, hands placating. It darted forward, stopped abruptly, and keened distress before racing again into an alley. I shuddered: dogs never liked us, and the encounter was not a good omen.
But the day brightened, and no one else intruded on my path. At home I would have carried saltcakes made the night before: hearty, contemplative food for the day’s meanderings. I’d gotten back to the hostel too late, and risen too early, to request anything from Tante Leah’s kitchen. She’d have wanted to talk in any case, breaking my ritual silence. Instead, I chose a bakery with its door ajar and the smell of fresh bread wafting through. I pointed at a small loaf, nodded when it was offered for my inspection, placed my hand on my heart in thanks, paid with cash from my skirt pocket. The proprietor, unfazed, must have assumed me unversed in both English and Yiddish, reluctant to mangle either for this simple interaction. She fell back on Yiddish, so I understood only the friendly amusement of her prosody. If I followed custom strictly, I shouldn’t have let anyone speak to me either—but our interaction seemed a better omen than the dog.
I found a small park, and a bench where I could break my fast. The morning was warm but humid, and the tang of ozone promised rain. I offered crumbs to birds. I prayed, feeling much less certain and much less grown-up than when I’d last done this. Ïa, Yog-Sothoth, Gate and Key. Open the way for me to see myself, to know what I am without others to support me. And keep the gate open, the key in sight, for me to return and be again enmeshed with my family, my community, my confluence.
Ïa, Dagon, Ïa, Hydra, show me what I can be for Innsmouth. You guarded us in life and did not prevent our deaths; can you lead us toward life again? Or do you only watch?
Ïa, Nyarlathotep, you’ve had your laugh. Now let me recognize when others seek to lead me astray. No. Let me recognize when I’m about to lead myself astray.
At first, I tried to pretend I was truly alone. I tried to focus on the proper subjects for solstice meditation as I had learned them: myself, my family, the full community of the water; expanding circles of connection with each concentric ring fully encompassing the lesser rings within.
But that was no longer my life. So much of my family now fell outside the compass of the water. The Kotos, who had welcomed me and Caleb when we’d lost everyone else, when they were raw with their own mourning for father and husband. I’d been so glad of Neko’s company these past six months and missed the others desperately. I loved the confluence, but I’d never wanted to leave Mama Rei and her proud and dutiful caretaking, sharp kindness that pierced and bound all at once, like her sewing needles. I hadn’t wanted to leave Anna, as comfortable following her mother’s advice as Neko was conflicted, or Kevin, still exploring his first freedom. I hadn’t wanted to leave San Francisco, where rain and mist soothed my skin every day, where the hills strengthened my legs and mountains cast long shadows on rocky beaches.
And yet, if I’d stayed in San Francisco I would have missed my newer family. They were stranger to me than the Kotos, who built their community in a shape much like my own. The Nihonmachi was an Innsmouth of a sort, an oasis of shared understanding and culture. The confluence was different. Deedee avoided her family for reasons she would not name. Charlie spent uncomfortable holidays with his parents, who disliked everything they knew about his life. Audrey was close to her family, and yet I’d never met them—and never would, for we were none of us the sort of friends they would approve. Whether my friends welcomed or repudiated these bonds, they didn’t extend to me. Still the confluence connected us.
I realized, though, that I had met one relative of Audrey’s, this very week. And she had approved of me.
I’d met relatives of my own as well, people of the water who weren’t part of that greater circle. Frances, initially reticent, seemed drawn to our offer of community. She’d asked how she could celebrate the solstice herself, and would meet us at Coney Island tonight. We needed to create a ceremony, when we had the time, to welcome her to the family she’d never known. Very few mistblooded children had ever been reclaimed before their metamorphosis, and we’d never needed such a ritual before. But gods willing, the Lavernes would not be the last.
Freddy. Part of me wanted to interpret his choices, made in ignorance of our connection, as simple self-destructive delusion. But through him I’d seen another tight-knit community, strange and dangerous and utterly at odds with our blood. The Outer Ones and their companions were another ripple spreading outward, intersecting with my own.
I thought then not of concentric ripples, like a stone dropped in a pond, but of rain on water. Each drop left a mark, some spreading almost invisibly while others grew into waves that would cross the ocean. I stopped trying to ignore the crowds around me, and started watching them, trying to understand the lives that intersected so briefly with my own.
A young boy, red hair flashing beneath his skullcap, chased a ball out of an alley. Two more boys followed; they scuffled around the ball before retrieving it and racing back between the buildings. A woman beat a scarlet rug over the side of a balcony. I heard a baritone singing in an unfamiliar language.
I walked south, mindful of the network of trains undergirding the city, and where I had to be at sundown. Neighborhoods shifted and blended—as they did in San Francisco but larger, louder, more multitudinous. Alphabets and chords of scent, line of cheek and tone of skin, flavor of language: these differences marked each cluster of blocks unmistakably, showing where communities settled together to share comfort in an unfamiliar place. But each permeable pool spread rivulets into the surrounding pools, as people intermingled for food or friendship or business or simple curiosity. Without that flow, they might have grown stagnant. With it, they became a thriving wetland of shared strength.
Those rivulets were the veins carrying the pulse I’d felt since I arrived. I could feel it now, speeding my own heart and making my fingers tremble. It fascinated and overwhelmed me. Even those who lived here sometimes seemed discomfited. An ice cream cart minder shouted at a boy: “Talk English! I ain’t got time to figure out what you want!” A pale man, gangling in a tweed jacket, walked hunched as if against blistering wind, arms tight across his chest. He caught sight of an awning marked in Chinese characters and shuddered, hurrying on.
Innsmouth, England, had been truly isolated, clinging to the tip of a peninsula that high tide cut completely from the mainland. When nearby towns swelled toward us and brought suspicion with them, we’d sought similar solitude in America. We’d settled for a patch of land girded by bogs that discouraged the Puritans who claimed territory nearby. We’d traded with native towns as well, trying to keep them as a buffer between ourselves and those who knew us better. I recalled our history from faded lessons: decisions treated as inevitable in the schoolroom. What would we have been like, if we’d come here instead of the Massachusetts coast? If we’d given up secrecy for the camouflage of a hundred other mutually unfamiliar cultures?
I mused, imagining a few blocks claimed beside the ocean. Awnings marked with Enochian runes, carts serving saltcakes and fried fish on skewers. A temple squeezed into a narrow storefront. Perhaps we would have been safer.
But we’d have been very different, by now. Children on the street shouted in mixed tongues, and most merchants seemed more forgiving of crossed boundaries than the ice cream vendor. In spite of each demarcated oasis, I saw mixed heritage in many faces, and clothes that told nothing of their wearers’ origins. I watched a young Chinese woman, whose dress would fit perfectly among Audrey’s fashionable friends even if her skin would not, argue enthusiastically with a gray-haired negro woman whose peacock-blue skirt flowed past her ankles. Our little oceanside haven would have had permeable edges as well: neighbors sharing apartment buildings for cost or convenience, children playing comfortably alongside men of the air, moving across town to be closer to a job or a lover. We would have gone everywhere in the city, sooner or later. Talked to everyone.
We would not have lost as much as we had in reality—but we’d have argued endlessly over the trade-offs we’d made. Now, with what little we had left, those trades were unavoidable.
* * *
Neko Koto—May 1949:
Audrey finds me on the beach, trying to figure out how to skip pebbles. I was never any good at it in San Francisco, and the Atlantic is no more cooperative. Deedee and Charlie both have the knack, and Aphra’s grandfather is good enough that I suspect chicanery. Or just a century of practice.
Audrey finds a sea-polished pebble and turns it round in her hand. She crouches and splashes water over her face—then winces at the salt in her eyes. Aphra’s customs don’t always suit the rest of us, I think, but I can see Audrey finds it comforting in spite of the sting.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Nothing.” She tosses the pebble from hand to hand. “Do you miss your brother?”
My stone sinks to the sandbar. I think about Kevin, full of life and energy, occupying all parts of a room at once. Of his cries in a small cabin. “Sure, sometimes. But I’d rather be here.” And I think of why Audrey would ask. “Do you miss your father?”
“Sure, sometimes. But he’s close by. And … I know how to ask him for things, you know? But not how to ask him about things.” She dips her hands again and runs them across her face, pausing with the pebble against her forehead.
“Your brother,” I say gently. I know he died in the war, little more. I’ve never asked what theater.
“I’ve been thinking about him. Because he didn’t know—what I am, what he must have been. I don’t see how knowing could have made a difference, but I keep thinking somehow it might have.”
I’ve imagined miracles to save my father, sent alone to a dissidents’ camp and dead of flu the first winter, a thousand times. I sit beside her. Around Aphra, I’ve grown used to damp dresses. “Does your family talk about it? I mean—his passing. We talked so much about my father, we mourned him, but without a body or a funeral it all felt unreal. Except when it didn’t at all.”
She nods. “We had a funeral, of course, but no body either. My family’s not great with funerals, but at least my parents would say his name. I had friends whose fathers and brothers vanished into these big empty spots in conversations, holes you could fall into.” She frowns at her rock, and spins it out over the water. It skips once, barely skimming, and disappears. I think of the prayers we said over my own father—no chance for a funeral, in the camps, only stolen moments for remembrance. Aphra and Caleb guarded our moments of contemplation and mourning, as we guarded theirs.
Audrey goes on: “Mom and Dad were almost eager to get me out the door for Hall—not because they didn’t want me around, but I think they didn’t want to have something happen to me, too, before I got to live my life. I’m grateful, but…”
But she almost died on this beach, a few months ago. I need to remember that. Audrey wears confidence like a diamond necklace, and yet she walks the site of her nightmares every day. Mine are safely on the other side of the country, and it doesn’t feel far enough. Sometimes I just want to pick a direction, and keep going until I find that distance. “You can’t tell them that something did happen.”
“They have pretty narrow ideas about what kind of life I should live. It would never even occur to them that I wanted something else. And even if the circumstances weren’t impossible to explain, it’d kill them to think my life was in danger.”
“Mama knows. But we’ve been through danger together; I don’t think she expects me to avoid it. To be able to avoid it.” I need to remember that too—however constraining I sometimes feel Mama’s expectations, she knows what my real life is like, and doesn’t think it too strange to bear.